


I Don't Think I Really Mind.

by Coatcollars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:00:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coatcollars/pseuds/Coatcollars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has regular hallucinations. Sometimes he's not too sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Think I Really Mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Reichenbach reunion?

John fumbles with the key in his pocket, his deep, black hole of a pocket where he cannot find his keys. He's holding plastic bags firmly with the other hand (his good hand) and is trying to fit the key into the lock with shaking digits. He pushes the door open with his foot, stepping inside the empty and dark flat of 221. He expects nothing as he had for the past two years. John switches the light on with a small _click_ and a sigh.

And it was, in fact, empty.

He walks to the kitchen, disposing of the groceries to the fridge and cupboards, closing the doors soundly.  John decides to make tea, his chest contracts for the twenty hundredth time at the varity of mugs. 

John pulls down _his_ mug and reaches into the tea tin for something suitable.

The electric maker clicks on and John goes to his chair to rummage around for the paper, bringing it back to the water which was now boiling. He pours it to the mug, expertly, and reads the paper as he returns to his chair.

John averts his attention from the paper and ruffles it loudly. The sound had stopped, because yes, there was a sound. A sound that he had heard from the momet he walked through the door and the second he had sat in his chair.

He returns to his paper, because, after all, it's just a sound.

Three minutes later, John hears the sound again, more repetitive, sounding like feet descending stairs. He stands up and sets the paper down, arming himself with a half empty mug. John walks to the source of the noise and waits.

"Oh, It's you." John says, he sets his weapon on the tea table and smiles, delighted. "You've come to the flat."

He makes his way to him, the statue like body that has a hand placed on the hallway wall, standing a very small distance away.

"I only ever saw you outside." John frowns, "You've grown a beard. Doesn't really suit you but it's not too bad I suppose."

He tilts his head when doesn't receive a response, "Sherlock? Hey, you okay?" He closes the gap between them, "You don't really seem yourself."

John _knows_ this isn't the real Sherlock. None of them had been. All the heads poking out behind trees, all of the clad figures at the end of alleys, non of them were _really_  him. Well, John had never seen them for more than a minute, always disappearing when he had run after him, standing very confused and disappointed in the spot he had seen his friend. The first few times he had fallen in his knees and cried, wanting him back and calling his name. The other times he smiled and waved, sometimes receiving a smile back, mostly sad but sometimes happy. They were hallucinations, his therapist told him. He believed her, as much as he didn't want to admit it, he really did.

He dreamt about Sherlock, he always invaded his dreams (somewhat how he had invade his life.) Once John had touched one, It had flagged down a cab for him after he had been trying for twenty minutes. He had scrambled for the back of his scarf and Sherlock had whirled around and caught him, propping him back on his feet and leaving briskly. John had smiled, feeling warm as he entered the cab.

But they had never been in the flat. He's not complaining really, just confused of why it's with him now.

Sherlock opens his mouth slightly, he breaths through his nose, in and out.

"Hey," John says, he reaches for Sherlock's hands. They're cold, damp and feel like heaven. "Don't worry, you can stay, right?" John is the one that's worrying.

The hallucination nods.

"Good." John says, "I'm glad."

He squeezes the hand and sways them at their sides, happily; Sherlock only stares down at him, remorse and pent up pain behind his eyes.  John wonders what wrong, it's okay now, right?  

He stands up on his toes and his lips fall on the side of Sherlock's pale cheek, just below the prominent cheek bone which John thought really shouldn't be so prominent.

The hallucination closes its eyes and leans softly into John's lips.

"You feel better?" John asks, "I thought that might help." He holds Sherlock's hands tighter and places them on his hips, lightly and slowly. "I really hope your good, I'm good. Well the last year I've been good." he laughs, "The first were difficult. But after I saw you a couple times I felt better."

He peers up into the hallucinations face. He supposed he couldn't speak, he was a figment after all, but he asks anyway.

"Can you talk? I mean I can touch you, and you can touch me, so maybe..."

"Yes," it said, it's voice was hoarse and it whispered very softly. Beautifully familiar.

"Hah, that's very good." John says again, "Thought I would have to do all the talking." 

"John--" It says, and Sherlock steps away to put a distance.

"What?" John frowns again.

"I'm not--" he seemed to shake slightly, "I'm right here."

"Yeah. I know." John puts his hands on his own hips and glares.

"No. I'm not dead."

John laughs, and grins at his friend- his very much _dead_   friend. "No, you're definitely dead. But it's been a long day, so I guess that's why you're here."

He stares at Sherlock, he was here, yes. He wasn't physically _here_  but John felt his presence. It was good enough.

John clears his throat, "So um, what do you want to do? You're not going to dash off, right?"

"No."

"Okay let's go then, I'm tired, I'm going to sleep." He pulls Sherlock's hands in his and laces their fingers together, "Will you join me?" 

Sherlock nods and John pulls him up the steps, "This might be weird but I really miss you and I just want to be with you, you know just one night."

John opens the door, revealing where Sherlock had been earlier. What exactly he was doing then, John didn't know. He walks in and lets go of him, "I'm gonna get changed." he says and walks to his drawer then to the restroom.

Sherlock sits on the bed and waits.

John returns minutes later, he had brushed his teeth and was in his night clothes. He shuffles over to his bed and pushes the covers down and over his legs, patting the side next to him as an invitation.

Sherlock smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes, it doesn't event push his cheeks up. It pulls off his shoes and is still in his trousers and a jacket when he crawls slowly into bed. 

"You okay?" John is holding his hand again.

Sherlock strokes his thumb over John's knuckles in sort of response and his eyes are focused on them.

John shakes his head and smiles, settling his head into the pillow and holding Sherlock's hand until moving closer to him and putting them to his chest. John places his other hand up to the hallucinations face.

"You know it was really hard after you left? Really hard. I didn't know what to do with myself, you were my life back then. I really love you." he whispers, "I'm not really sure what that means, I mean you're dead, so I don't know what to do," he laughs, "This is really shitty huh?"

The hallucination that really didn't seem like a hallucination, shuddered and set it's hand on Johns hand. It smiles weakly and a stream of tears strolled down his cheek.

"Hey don't cry," John wipes it away, "you shouldn't cry. Come here."

Sherlock is pulled into John's arms, his now loose curls fall to John's shoulder and he cries, really cries. Muffling himself into John's neck and pulls John into his body and patterned his legs with his. "John--" he says, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. Please John--"

John encloses him in his arms, burying his lips in Sherlock's bangs. "I know you are." he said, and brushed the hair from his pale eyes.

"I know." 


End file.
